


paper, powder, oil

by chuchisushi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Comfort, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Jossed, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars, jesse's atrocious accent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blade takes to rust with just the touch of a finger. Proper maintenance of a weapon is essential to the successful completion of a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paper, powder, oil

**Author's Note:**

> Or, in which Hanzo notices Jesse has a lot of scars and, after a shamelessly self-indulgent interval, decides to do something about them.
> 
> thanks go to the birthday boy, who knows who he is, for getting me to actually finish this first part, and more thanks to noah as usual for betaing for me
> 
> also since this fic was started before the confirmation of hanzo's chicken legs, hanzo has prosthetics. yes,,, it's been a wip for a while,,

McCree has a rather skewed sense of ‘normal’, Hanzo is learning.

Perhaps this statement is somewhat hypocritical, given Hanzo’s own upbringing as the heir to a criminal empire, but Hanzo believes that he, as a result, has the context to realize the extent of McCree’s idiosyncrasies and unusual characteristics due to his similarly abnormal early life – the feature at the moment being the sheer amount of _scar tissue_ the American has.

“Are you more old wound than man?” Hanzo asks flatly; McCree pauses mid-movement, his shirt half off and tangled in the vicinity of his biceps – he instinctively tries to look down at himself only to be stymied by the fabric in the way.

“Thought y’didn’ mind'a man with’a little wear’n tear,” McCree starts defensively, to which Hanzo sighs irritably, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and opens his arms, gesturing impatiently for Jesse to come closer. McCree complies with alacrity, abandoning his attempts to take off his shirt and clambering half onto the bed (careful of Hanzo’s half-removed prosthetics) to envelop Hanzo in both arms, squeezing tight and rubbing his beard against Hanzo’s temple. Hanzo allows the cuddle for several seconds before digging the fingers of both hands under the bunched up hem of Jesse’s shirt and brutally stripping him of it, uncaring of how McCree yelps and whines about “givin’ a man a warnin’” and his complaints about the ear that had been caught by the fabric.

“There are merely… more than I had thought,” Hanzo clarifies, returning to his earlier comment as he primly folds Jesse’s shirt into quarters and drops it off the side of the bed; he lays his arms over McCree’s shoulders, lacing his fingers behind the other’s head, and considers the patterns of mismatched, textured flesh that punctuate the natural tan of McCree’s skin; he runs eyes over the length of his shoulders, down his biceps, to where his prosthetic arm connects and the web of damage at its base that speaks to whatever event that had caused him to lose the limb. Hanzo refocuses his attention upon Jesse, who has gained a frankly besotted expression at some point during Hanzo’s scrutiny. Hanzo frowns at him, and Jesse explains: “Ah love that look on yer face, darlin’. Jes’ like inna firefight,” which Hanzo _does_ roll his eyes at.

He pushes Jesse back, unfastens the other’s belt, and then leaves the rest of his clothes alone, obviously intending for McCree to take care of what remained on his own; Hanzo bends instead to disengage the attachments that serve as toes on his left foot, one on either side of the analogue to where his metatarsals would have ended. Each is sharp, metal permeated with nanolevel sensory apparatus, created for combat and enabling him (with the help of his training) to scale walls; they are no substitute for the limbs he had been born with – but they serve. Hanzo holds one half of the metallic blade in his palm, tests its sharpness, and sets it aside in its storage case; he does the same with the other, then installs the tarsals that he utilizes in downtime – one fused arc of metal padded with a silicon derivative, less flexible and responsive, but easier on flooring and any accidental contact with destructible objects.

Objects such as McCree, who is watching the process with a warm fondness that Hanzo nearly scoffs at. Jesse says, as Hanzo moves on to the edged metal that serves as kneecaps and guard both, “Still haven’ quite got ridda th’ mark y’left’n me that time.” He drapes himself over Hanzo’s shoulders, which is enough to quell whatever budding guilt Hanzo had been gathering at the other man’s words. Their first coupling – and, indeed, many of their couplings – had been hurried, half-dressed, mutual urgency fueling them into careless desperation; Hanzo had scored a line into Jesse’s flank during one of them, cut through cloth and drawn blood, and though the wound had been shallow enough, that it had happened at _all_ –

So Hanzo is more careful now (because he cannot rely upon Jesse to be), and Hanzo replaces sharp edges with soft padding and listens to McCree fiddling with the mechanisms on his arm, a series of soft clinks punctuated by a pneumatic hiss that is echoed by the exhale of air from Jesse’s lips. Hanzo leans back into the weight of Jesse against him, on him.

The sex, before, had been hurried and eager, done in darkness or in smaller spaces co-opted for intimate exchanges for the lack of privacy on the run; this is not the first time Hanzo has seen Jesse without his clothes, but it is the first time without the hunger of desire or the post-mission nausea of blood spilled, sitting at the bedside of the wounded or dragging them down the halls to Mercy. Hanzo looks over and the lengths of Jesse’s legs are also scarred, in lines more than starbursts; he reaches out and touches a fingertip to one, a messy blaze of pale tissue to the side of and just below Jesse’s right knee. The bone is… irregular, oddly ridged and distorted underneath the skin and hair.

“Baddie shot t’cripple,” McCree says. “Took m’leg out fr’m right und’a me. Got’t’em good, but knocked me for a loop, gotta say.” Hanzo cuts his eyes up to Jesse’s, to where the other is regarding him with some nameless softness in his gaze, then moves his finger upwards to where a ragged, puckered scar slices horizontally across Jesse’s soft belly, the edges of it sealed by the pricks of former stitches.

“Nasty blade’f’a… well.” Jesse scratches at his cheek, nail scraping through stubble, and considers the ceiling for a moment. “Guess Ah shouldn’ say; dunno’f that mission’s declassified by now. Les’ jes’ say it wassa very lovely lady witha real ugly knife. ‘Bout had me wearin’ my guts fer garters. Had Blackwatch’s quartermaster make more armor afta that.”

A messy patch of distortion, nodules and scattered satellites splattered haphazard across Jesse’s right shoulder and deltoid.

“Reaper. Well. Reyes. Before. Got’t’n th’scuffle that landed me ‘n Overwatch,” and that causes something too-heavy and grave to sweep across McCree’s face as he turns his head to consider it as well, some something that speaks to the past and former comrades and the terrible weight of lost chances.

Hanzo leans more of his weight into the bulk of Jesse against him, twists to spread his palm against his skin, and _presses._

It makes Jesse shake himself, eyes flicking up to the almost-scowl Hanzo has on his face; Jesse smiles at him and Hanzo’s lips pull into a sneer even as his heart twists in his chest. He doesn’t know this history, has only the faintest idea of the shape of the camaraderie that Jesse and those of Overwatch-before had had (does not, on some level, _want_ to know, for the memory of the reminder of his little brother, a sparrow rebuilt in metal and plastic and carbon fiber to fly again) but he recognizes _this_ , this bittersweet bladed echo of what could have been. He’d felt its bite himself, sharp and piercing into his belly, and drunk rice wine to feed it, made it burn _high_ before it dulled.

(On his weakest nights, he imagines swallowing mouthfuls of flame and wakes in the morning tasting the ash of his and Genji’s battlefield coating the inside of his mouth.)

So he sneers and Jesse, ridiculous, foolish, _beloved_ man that he is leans in to kiss the expression from his face, and Hanzo sighs and gives in to it and licks the taste of cigarillos out of the other’s mouth instead.

“You are so very slow,” he grumbles afterwards, tips forward to reach around to yank impatiently at Jesse’s waistband; the other laughs and protests, “Yer wearin’ more clothes’n Ah am; don’ gimme tha – ” to which Hanzo abruptly lets go.

He slides off the bed, turning on heel to face McCree (who is recovering from nearly falling altogether, given the sudden removal of the form he’d been putting so much weight again); he captures Jesse’s eyes and then, without ever breaking their stare, yanks sharply, decisively, at the tie to his pants and shirt, two motions that the fabric yields under. He rolls his shoulders, well aware of the sight of the flex of his muscles under his skin, shifts his weight to encourage the slide of his pants off of his hips, and the neutral, haughty expression on his face melts into something more smirking and satisfied and coy as the cloth gives to gravity’s pull to fall to the floor, as Jesse openly, _appreciatively_ stares.

“Is that so?” Hanzo enunciates, then adds, “Your move, McCree-kun,” just to see the other man flush and scramble to skin one-handed out of his jeans as Hanzo delicately steps out of the circle of cloth on the floor, every movement deliberate and slow.

Jesse does manage to get his pants down to midthigh by the time Hanzo settles himself lazily, pointedly, in McCree’s lap, legs spread around his hips; he rides the flex of the other’s thighs as he settles, balance impeccable, and then slides forward along the length of Jesse’s legs to snug their pelvises together, pressing their cocks to each other inside their respective underclothes. Jesse makes a throaty little noise at it, at the push and grind as Hanzo rolls his hips deliberately, and then squirms; Hanzo doesn’t need to look to know McCree is trying to get the rest of the way out of his pants, just rolls his eyes and leans back, reaching behind him to yank the man’s jeans down past his knees.

“Thank ya’, darlin’,” Jesse says slightly sheepishly, both his arms coming up automatically to help Hanzo reattain vertical after; he tips his head down and pushes into the space below Hanzo’s chin, one of his hands splaying in the span between Hanzo’s shoulderblades, the other anchored at his waist all elbow crook and scar tissue. Jesse kisses him – gentle at first, lips to the skin over Hanzo’s Adam’s apple, then harder, hungry, as he opens his mouth and sets teeth about the span of Hanzo’s trachea and bites down; Hanzo swallows and the tension of the resistance makes his knees turn to water; he tips his chin back, ruts against the other, and moans in sync with Jesse for how the noise rattles mirrored between them in cartilage and canine.

“Harder,” he slurs, then sighs, pleasure-drunk on the headiness of his own desire as Jesse’s bite turns borderline-bruising, enough force to leave indents and the memory of pressure even after the sex; Jesse fumbles in Hanzo’s underwear and gets his fingers around his dick, starts stroking him off in time to the tight-release of his teeth in his skin, and Hanzo _throbs_ and moans, rolling his hips to push his length through Jesse’s grip, and chokes out a noise of disappointment when Jesse brings him to the edge and leaves him there, releasing him entirely. Hanzo twitches and groans, futilely thrusting as though the bob of his dick in the air would be enough to tip him over, and Jesse lets go of Hanzo’s throat as well to lick solicitously, gut-wrenchingly gently over the shallow marks he’d left in the other’s skin.

“Gotta getcha’a collar one’a these days,” Jesse murmurs, lips against tendons strung taut.

Hanzo groans, both at the thought and at the buzz of Jesse’s voice against his pulse, watches him pull back from under heavy-lidded eyes, and says, “I want you in me. Hurry up.”

“Ah hear patience is’a virtue, darlin’,” but Jesse is moving despite his words, arm and elbow looped around Hanzo’s waist as he twists to tip them over onto the bed, and Hanzo returns, acerbically, “One would have never guessed given how you rush in.” Jesse’s laugh of delight melts into a groan as Hanzo watches the other slide his boxers off of his hips, the thick length of his cock bobbing free. He’d never known until now, in the luxury of having time to take and the privacy to spend it in, that the pleasure he’d experienced from the twisted ridge a quarter of the way down Jesse’s length was also from a scar, but there are marks of former damage here as well, littered across the span of McCree’s hips as white lines, old things that match the age of the mass that precludes the foreshortened end of Jesse’s left arm. Hanzo’s eyes track trajectories automatically, an archer’s aim to pinpoint the origin of the messy vectored splatter of marks, but he catches himself and wrenches his gaze away. They are too new yet with each other to have broached this topic, the loss of Jesse’s arm and Hanzo’s legs; it strips them too bare for comfort, not familiar enough for catharsis.

He is pulled away from his bittersweet thoughts by the touch of Jesse’s hand against his abdomen, gun calluses and broad warmth; when he refocuses his eyes it’s to meet Jesse’s concerned consideration. “Everythin’ alright there?” Hanzo grunts slightly, irritably, pushing himself up on his elbows to shed the last of his clothes, well aware of Jesse’s eyes on him. “’S been’a long day; we k’n put’a pin’n it – ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hanzo retorts, skims fingers over the blankets to pick up the ampoule of lubricant Jesse had dropped, snaps the sterile seal on it with a decisive motion, and stares the other man down as he pushes the tip of it into himself, emptying its contents with a squeeze. Hanzo lets his eyes flutter when he presses fingers in after, impatiently ungentle on the stretch, tips his head back when Jesse nuzzles in to kiss, stubble scraping, along his neck.

“Hanzo,” Jesse murmurs, and Hanzo groans when Jesse gets his hand around his dick again, pulling lazily out-of-sync to the push of Hanzo’s fingers. Jesse shuffles forwards enough to kneel on the bed, hitches first one, then the other, of Hanzo’s legs over his hips without ever breaking his pace, and Hanzo moans when Jesse turns his gaze downwards and rumbles, “Now there’s’a real pretty sight.”

Jesse smirks at the sound, continues, “Never gonna get tired’a watchin’y’ fuck yerself open fer me, Hanzo – jes’ look’it’y go, two fingers already wet up’t th’ knuckle – real damn nice.” He does let go of Hanzo’s cock then to rub the pad of his thumb over the red stretch of Hanzo over his own fingers, smiles fondly at the gut-punched noise Hanzo makes in response, and returns his hand to where it had been, stroking tighter, faster, letting Hanzo roll his hips between the grip of the fingers around his dick and the blunt penetration of himself. “Ah bet’cha could come like this, jes’ like this, right darlin’? With two fingers up yer ass and’a warm hand ‘round yer cock – y’want this’un, Hanzo? ‘R did’ja want me t’ fuck y’inta it instead – ” and Jesse has barely finished the sentence before Hanzo is slurring, voice pleasure-thick and round, “Your cock, Jesse; I want your cock.” He inhales sharply, arches his back when Jesse pets across the front of his hip and presses into the swell of his perineum after with the ball of his thumb, and repeats louder, a desperate edge to his voice, “Jesse – !”  

“Ah hear y’, darlin’, Ah hear y’ – now don’ go havin’ all’a th’ fun on yer own now; jes’ gimme a mo’ – ” and Hanzo closes his eyes as he tucks a third finger into himself, feels his cock flex and strain at the stretch and the sharpness of Jesse’s inhale from the sight, and smiles.

“If you do not want me to – _ah_ – ‘have all the fun’ – then you should hurry,” Hanzo returns as he works his fingers in and out of himself, hitching Jesse closer by one of the legs on the other’s hips when he hears the tear of a foil wrapper. There’s the click of a bottle of lube, a wet squelch that accompanies a soft groan from Jesse, and then Hanzo opens his eyes when he feels a hand tugging at his wrist. He looks up at Jesse – the other man red-faced under his tan and freckles, flushed with eagerness and desire – smirks as he strokes over his prostate one last time (watches the way Jesse licks his lips, eyes roaming), and withdraws them completely, sighing a little at the loss. He stretches out against the sheets, muscles flexing as he clenches around nothing, then reaches further to get his fingers on Jesse’s cock to guide the push of the man into him; he moans throatily, long and low, at the sweet burn of the spread of himself around McCree, the pressure of being filled by his girth, the spark of pleasure as Jesse’s fat head scrapes against his prostate on its entrance. He tightens his legs around Jesse’s hips, nonverbally urging him closer, forwards, _faster_.

Jesse doesn’t need to be told twice, just rumbles, “Yer so damn hot inside, Hanzo, christ, how’re y’so good fer me every time – ” before anchoring his fingers on Hanzo’s hip, laying himself down over him to kiss, and sharply snapping into a _punishingly_ fast pace.

He swallows the yelp Hanzo makes at the abrupt change, the suddenly brutal cleave of Jesse into the tenderest parts of himself without the chance to acclimate; Jesse bites at the column of Hanzo’s throat as the other man whimpers and murmurs, “Careful wi’those claws’f yers, darlin’,” when Hanzo’s arms come up to dig fingertips into his shoulders. Under him, Hanzo makes a derisive snarling noise before raking his nails down Jesse’s skin; the man laughs into the intimate warmth below Hanzo’s chin and laves the flat of his tongue against the skin below his lips to taste the salt of his sweat – then opens his mouth and _bites._

Hanzo’s nails draw blood, but Jesse must not care, because he does it again and again and again, leaves double half-moons of teeth overlapping each other down the length of Hanzo’s neck; they ache dully, like a throbbing multiplicity of Hanzo’s pulse around Jesse, and Hanzo groans at the sensation, the stimulation, and arches, little pleased, round vowel-sounds pushed from his lips every time Jesse seats himself fully. Their pace may be rough but Hanzo has never felt anything other than _cherished_ , even as Jesse fucks into him like he’s _using_ him, all heat and slick-wet noises and the slap of his hips against Hanzo’s ass – Hanzo slits open his eyes as McCree props himself up enough to kiss him sloppily, the both of them open-mouthed gasping for air around the jostle of their thrusts, and Jesse moans, “Ain’t gonna last much longer, darlin’; y’feel t’damn good,” and clumsily presses his thumb to Hanzo’s lower lip, his neck just below his Adam’s apple, and then runs his fingers through his hair, divesting it of its ribbon. Hanzo reaches up for him, grabs Jesse about the wrist and tugs, brings the other’s hand down to the jut of his cock against his belly, red-straining beading pre every time Jesse hits his prostate, and moans blearily, pleasure-drunk, when McCree starts jerking him off. He lets go of the man’s wrist, brings his other hand to one of his pectorals; he squeezes the muscle about his nipple, thumbs at it, and spreads the fingers of his other hand around where Jesse is fucking into him, tips his head back and fixes his gaze with Jesse’s, and summons what willpower his scattering thoughts can manage to curve his mouth into an imitation of the little, arrogant smirk he’d worn as a Shimada lordling.

“I expect – to not be – _disappointed_ ,” he enunciates around the air McCree is driving from his lungs, and Jesse barks out a laugh and returns, eyes sparkling in delight, “Now – now y’done it,” pulling back to get a good look at the entirety of the picture Hanzo makes for him, and deigns to tip his hips just _so_ , driving back into Hanzo with a troubleshooter’s aim and nailing his prostate with every thrust; Hanzo digs his heels into the soft small of Jesse’s back, jerks and twitches fullbodied as his assumed composure dissolves completely underneath the assault of pleasure, and it’s enough between the catching slide of Jesse’s callused hand on his cock and the molten push of his gunslinger fucking into him, feeding the fire pulsing like a war drum in his belly with the other’s twisted length catching on his rim, to drag out a mangled, guttural, _pleading_ exaltation of Jesse’s name from between Hanzo’s lips when he comes. The pleasure consumes him, swallows him whole like an animal, like a _monster_ , and he makes little noises like the same as he shudders, _racked_ with it, spilling hard across Jesse’s hand and his own stomach, twitching.

When he spirals back down from his high enough to his senses to _feel_ , he finds Jesse sheathed within him to the quick, the other trembling finely as his hand grips hard enough at Hanzo’s hip to bruise, solicitous control finally shredding underneath the tension of his own pleasure. Hanzo lazily arches his back, hitches one leg higher, links his fingers behind Jesse’s head over the other man’s shoulders, and rasps, “Come, then.” He bears down, rippling oversensitive but eager around McCree’s cock, and rumbles as the other man rolls his hips just enough to punch back in, all hard, vicious, clawing thrusts with Jesse’s teeth bared against Hanzo’s skin, with Jesse snarling like a _beast_ , wild in his desperation as he runs to ground the last bit of pleasure he needs; Hanzo rides the rough jags of sensation, cards hands through the other man’s hair, digs nails into the nape of the other man’s neck to mark him, and _feels_ when McCree tips over, the man rutting against him irregular as his fat cock pulse-throbs inside Hanzo’s tender flesh, Jesse snarling his name.

 

Hanzo _breathes_ as the other falls still, silent yet, and tugs at Jesse to accept the bulk of the man on top of him; Jesse goes willingly if jerkily in the aftermath, draping himself across Hanzo like some over-warm, weighted blanket, all muscle and fat and sweat and so _alive_ that Hanzo closes his eyes just to revel in it. He has ever been a cloistered garden, carefully set stones and rigid discipline, but he is learning to grow. If his heart has been hot, barren sand raked into strict geometry, then Jesse has been hardy desert scrub, persistent and unweedable, that has sprouted to throw clean lines into disarray. Hanzo doesn’t resent him for it, noses instead at Jesse’s temple, his cheek, touching him inquiringly even as he says, tartly, “Do not dare fall asleep atop me.”

Jesse groans in protest and Hanzo tugs on the other’s hair to emphasize his point: “We are disgusting.”

“Ah little sweat ain’t never hurt’a man – ” Jesse starts, then yelps when Hanzo kicks him in the ass. “Harsh, Shimada-sama – careful’f those goods there’f y’wan’em’n shape fer next time,” but he’s smiling as he levers himself off of Hanzo, helped back upright by a gentle push from the man below him. Hanzo trembles when Jesse pulls himself from him, eyes momentary closing as the emptiness inside him gapes sweet-sore with the impression of where Jesse had been, and then props himself up on an elbow to draw out the condom, tying it off with carefully steady fingers; he trades Jesse for a damp washcloth and then lets the other pull him to his shaky feet. The tiny ensuite is crowded with two men in it, but they manage, clean themselves up and strip the top layer of sheets off the bed after. Jesse lies on his side, head propped up on a hand as he watches Hanzo seat himself on the edge and bend to disconnect the leads and couplings from his legs, and Jesse loops his elbow around Hanzo’s waist when he hisses at the sensation of false loss, like stretching free into imperfection.

Hanzo wipes down the cradles of each prosthetic with antibacterial solution, does the same for the joins, and then repeats the entire process with McCree’s arm, meticulous and meditative, soul stilling the way it always has when he loses himself in the maintenance of a weapon. He sets them aside and then lays himself down as well, finally giving in to the well-worn weariness in his bones, the contentment of physical exertion, and Jesse wraps arms about him, callused hand splayed broad on Hanzo’s flank, the other tucked all elbow crook and scar tissue into the hard curve of Hanzo’s waist, and sighs gustily into Hanzo’s chest, dropping off almost immediately.

Hanzo lies awake for long minutes more, carding fingers through Jesse’s sun-damaged hair and tracing the myriad of constellations healed ragged into the other’s flesh. He thinks about weapons ill-cared for and of an irreparably nicked blade that he has vowed never to wield again. He thinks about Zen gardens and his brother’s forgiveness. He thinks about the utter stillness, peace that pools in Genji’s limbs now, free of rebellious energy, and cannot tell if it is disdain or grief or envy that fills his heart.

Jesse sneezes against him in his sleep, and Hanzo presses his lips together tightly so as to not wake the other man with his startled laugh. Absurd, ridiculous, exasperating fool. Hanzo pinches Jesse’s nose shut briefly, snorts as a vaguely consternated expression crosses the other’s face, and then lets go to settle once more. He thinks, briefly, upon the training he and his brother had undergone to hone their bodies into blades, and here, in Jesse’s arms, the memories don’t sting so strong. He slips into sleep between one thought and the next, and his slumber is sunshine warm and sassafras sweet and unbroken until dawn and beyond.


End file.
